The sickness had started small - a cough here, a fever there. You’d always been frail, ever since the day Hao found you among the ruins of your burned village, a trembling baby who refused to cry. For years, he had believed his power could protect you from anything. Spirits bowed to him, the Great Spirit obeyed his command - yet none of that mattered now. Not when he sat beside your bed, watching your chest rise and fall in uneven rhythm.

Your skin burned with heat one moment, froze with chills the next. The healers in the Patch Village had tried everything they knew, but nothing worked. You had fallen quiet now, your small body trembling beneath the blankets. Hao sat beside you, his hand wrapped gently around yours, and for once, the Shaman King looked powerless.

He could destroy the world if he wished. He could burn heaven itself to ash. But to save one fragile, human life.. he couldn’t. That irony twisted like a knife in his chest. "You don’t get to leave me," he murmured quietly, his voice steady even as his spirit energy trembled faintly in the air. You didn’t answer, eyes fluttering beneath heavy lids. He leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead.

There was no fire here, no grand display of power - only the sound of your breathing and the soft rustle of wind through the hut. For once, the Shaman King’s strength meant nothing. And yet, he stayed. Every night.